


Corellian Brandy

by lategoodbye



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Aftermath - Chuck Wendig
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 03:17:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5441477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lategoodbye/pseuds/lategoodbye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sinjir blinks away memories of the dead. He doesn't mourn them. Not really. Something in him is fundamentally broken. So much so that he never notices the tell-tale orange and white until the pilot sits down right next to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Corellian Brandy

The realisation hits him as yet more fireworks go off somewhere in the distance – there's not one drop of alcohol to be had anywhere on Endor. 

It's not entirely true, he supposes, but it might as well be: somewhere amidst the jungles of this wretched place are burnt out barracks, landing pads, underground bases. Stashed away in plasteel lockers and containers they are: bottles of priced Alderaanian ale and Corellian brandy and, for the really desperate, Nar Shaddaa moonshine. It's against regulations, of course. But Sinjir knows because knowing is part of his job description. 

By now Sinjir also knows that Endor's native species has no taste for the stuff. Their appetites lie elsewhere. He warily eyes the small wooden bowl by his feet. Its contents are Imperial. 

No, not like that – although judging by the amount of stormtrooper helmets, some charred, some bloody, that have already ended up as trophies he's not off by far. Sinjir's no expert on alien customs but an ecosystem as devoid of megafauna as this one? Well, even murderous little furballs have got to eat, right? 

He idly wonders if the rebels have figured it out yet. Maybe they don't care. Maybe they're right not to. Sinjir, for his part, has decided to sample a wide variety of highly nutritious Imperial regulation packs instead. And, really, he's not at all that sure whether Dewback stew is supposed to be this colour. Then again, what's it matter? He's tried the vacuum-sealed Nerf steak (it really didn't agree with the semi-suppressed panic attack he was ignoring at the time) and the smell of the smoked Bantha jerky reminds him of blaster bolts and scorched walkers. 

Sustenance won't fix this but he knows what will. It's about high time he got as sloshed as a Hutt. Really, it's the only way to go about this. 

It's not that he doesn't know how to hide in plain view. He's that good at what he does. Faking the soft accent of the outer rim poses no problem, and he's switched one uniform for another. The dishevelled look, the hollow eyes, the scratches and the bruises, that's all him. He's even kept his name. Good old Sinjir from random backwater planet and/or subjugated core world. Just give him time, he'll come around. The stormtroopers have really pulled a number on this one but he's done his part. The man's a hero of the New Republic!

Whatever. He just wants off this rock. No more Endor, no more Empire. No more.

“What a party, huh?”

Sinjir blinks away memories of the dead. He doesn't mourn them. Not really. Something in him is fundamentally broken. So much so that he never notices the tell-tale orange and white until the pilot sits down right next to him. He's the real deal, undoubtedly part of the squadron that pulled Endor's newest attraction out of the sky. Hasn't even had the time to put away his helmet, or maybe he's afraid it'll end up the key piece in a series of stuffed stormtroopers. 

“I'm Wedge. Wedge Antilles,” says the pilot. His voice is a pleasant distraction, even half-drowned out by the rhythmic noise of Endor drums. 

As it turns out, Wedge is pleasant to look at, too. Victory becomes him. He's exhausted, smells of rhydonium and sweat but his dark eyes shine like the fireworks that line the night sky and his skin radiates pinkish warmth. 

Sinjir swallows the laughter that bubbles in his throat. For a loyalty officer he's damned easy to impress. Or maybe it's hysteria. He's been through fear and blind panic and shock and apathy. It's like a game of pazaak – always handy to have a full deck at the ready.

“Sinjir.”

Wedge nods like the name means something. The Alliance patch on their ill-fitting uniforms confirms it. They're in this together now. Comfortable enough in their camaraderie that they sit in silence for a while.

Then,

“I wonder what it's like in Coronet right now.”

Sinjir gives this some thought. 

“My guess? They'll be pulling down that statue. The big one they never really finished because the durasteel shipments kept getting lost in transit.”

Wedge laughs, and it seems to Sinjir like maybe he hasn't done so in a long while, either.

“I know the one. Are you from Corellia then?”

Sinjir shakes his head. 

“Spent some time, though.”

It's not a lie. The Corellian black market is thriving and a spaceship-sized statue of the Emperor makes for good scrap metal. And, who knows, maybe some of it ended up as grenade casings or fuel cannisters for the Rebel Alliance. One thing's for certain: the Imperial officers responsible for misappropriating the durasteel shipments are dead now. This Sinjir knows because he's spent three standard weeks ferreting out each single one of them. Apply a bit of pressure here, break a few fingers there and even the most dignified of officers will gladly rat out their fellow traitors. 

All in a day's work for an Imperial loyalty officer. But Wedge doesn't need to know. To Wedge he's Sinjir the… blast it, he's no idea what he's supposed he be. Infantry, most likely. Expendable, for sure. Just another face in the crowd. 

“Excuse me, please,” Wedge mutters and their legs touch briefly as he struggles to his feet, fast enough to catch the eye of another rebel. 

This one Sinjir has seen about, and he's under no illusion that he's just another rebel. He's Skywalker. From an Imperial perspective the strange weapon clipped to his belt means that you're better off finding something else to do, preferably far, far away. 

Sinjir's never laid eyes on Lord Vader or the Emperor. He's seen them on holos and he considers himself lucky. With Skywalker it's different. Maybe that's why, as Wedge and he embrace, there's a split second when Wedge leans in for a kiss that never happens. Skywalker wanders off, oblivious, and Wedge is left getting bleated at by a wookiee. 

Because Endor's not nightmarish enough as it is, no, the rebels had to bring their wookiees, too. 

Sinjir's about to retreat – let someone else savour the taste of stale dewback stew and lovesick pilot – but then Wedge slumps down next to him again, helmet resting in his lap, the excited blush on his cheeks painting his face a pretty colour. 

“Evening not going according to plan?”

Wedge exhales: a toneless sigh swallowed by the sound of drums and cheering. 

“You could say that.”

It's almost cute, the way he's so damned open about everything. It's every loyalty officer's wet dream but Sinjir supposes that there's no room for those in the New Republic. It should have made him feel obsolete but instead he feels something akin to hope, and so instead of collecting valuable intel he offers Wedge a piece of advice: 

“Maybe next time don't go for the guy with the lightsaber. Heard those were bad for your health.”

“It's not like that.”

“Isn't it always, though?”

And now Wedge looks at him, really looks at him. Sinjir watches as his gaze zig-zags up and down his face, then dips lower, takes in his uniform, the bruise that climbs up his neck (and how he's come to acquire this one he'll never know). Finally, their eyes meet. Sinjir's too tired to conjure up even the most crooked of smiles. 

“You'd know, I guess?”

A master of subtlety this Wedge Antilles is not. Whether it's an ill-phrased challenge or an awkward confession it holds too much allure for him not to follow up on.

“It's as I said. However, I've most certainly had my share of pilots.”

Which is a load of bantha poodoo, of course, but it serves its purpose. 

“What?”

Kind of. 

Lucky for him, Wedge seems confused rather than offended. He's half-turned toward him, his helmet precariously close to making acquaintance with the wooden floor. Sinjir ducks his head; sheepishness always makes for a good ploy, he finds.

“We're celebrating, right? You should be enjoying yourself. That's all I'm saying.”

But Wedge, for better or for worse, remains unconvinced. Sinjir can't blame him. It's a cheap shot. He's not quite sure what's brought it on. His recent brush with death? His lingering existential crisis? The primal rhythm of the drums? Surely it's not Wedge Antilles himself. The man's not exactly dashing. Handsome, yes. Available, perhaps. Endearingly honest, certainly. Not the kind of man you come across very often in Imperial circles. 

Come join the New Republic, we've got exactly who you're looking for. 

“And I suppose you already have something, no, someone in mind?”

Sinjir shrugs.

“Well, you've yet to throw your helmet at me.”

Wedge lets one hand rest on the custom-painted plasteel.

“If I lose that helmet I'll never live it down,” he says.

Sinjir nods. 

“It is a pretty good helmet, as far as headgear goes.”

Another drawn-out moment spent in silence, this one more awkward but not uncomfortable. Wedge clears his throat. Sinjir can't hear for the cheering and off-key singing but he can feel the breath catch in Wedge's throat as he leans in just a little bit closer until they sit shoulder by shoulder. He waits for a rebuff that never comes, then he casually moves in to speak softly into Wedge's ear: 

“If you're wondering what it feels like to kiss someone on this momentous occasion, well, here's your chance.”

But for a while nothing happens. They're a holo-recording someone's stopped mid-message: Sinjir's lips not quite tracing the shape of Wedge's earlobe. Wedge leaning in as if eager to listen, his helmet still cradled protectively in his arms, his mouth half-opened, his eyes expressing reluctant wonder.

When he finally turns, oh so slowly turns, Sinjir's lips brush his cheek. The tips of their noses touch, their breath mingles, then they kiss. It's sweet, somehow, entirely innocent. More wholesome than what Sinjir in his single-mindedness is used to. It's more like half a kiss, really, and when he leans in Wedge draws back so he takes it slowly, carefully until the laws of decency demand that they withdraw.

“That was...” Wedge breathes. 

“Worth it,” Sinjir concludes.

And maybe, just maybe, things aren't really that bad. Maybe he'll make it out of here, and maybe his whole world won't end with Endor. 

But he really, really wishes he had a bottle of Corellian brandy. 

“Say,” he asks after they've both caught their breath, “you don't happen to have something to drink on you?”

Wedge considers, then he shakes his head.

“I'm taking off first thing tomorrow.”

“Pity,” Sinjir replies.

As he speaks he's not at all certain which Corellian – the man or the brandy – he has in mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [dragonbuttocksareironbullscake](http://dragonbuttocksareironbullscake.tumblr.com/) for checking for spelling & grammar mistakes. 
> 
> This wee ficlet probably wouldn't exist if it wasn't for [this gif](http://rathvelus.tumblr.com/post/134809595425) and sharing about a gazillion headcanons with Rose whose [fanart of Sinjir](http://makeramidying.tumblr.com/post/134997157370) is simply amazing!


End file.
